


Bumpy Ride

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place during Harry’s ride on the Knight Bus in PoA, of course, in the implied gap between Stan bringing Harry the hot chocolate and Harry being the last passenger on the bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bumpy Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lunulet for Merry Smutmas 2004.

Harry was almost asleep when Stan brought the hot chocolate. It seemed even being a desperate man on the run who was currently on board a bus that was trying to shake him to pieces, driven by a maniac and staffed by a spotty moron, didn’t stop his body from demanding rest when put in close proximity to a nice soft bed.

It was probably for the best that the drink was spilt, because he’d have never stayed awake with that inside him.

“Sorry ’bout that.” Stan Shunpike nodded at the pillow that was now dripping hot chocolate all over the floor of the Knight Bus. “S’pose you want some more, don’cha?” He watched with mild interest as Harry shook gloopy drops across the bedspread.

“No, it’s fine. Really.” Harry reckoned one drenching in hot liquid was enough for an evening, even one as peculiar as he was having. He leaned back against the iron bedstead, the metal knobs digging into his spine without the cushion of the pillow, and tried to move with the shifting and swerving motion as Stan seemed to be able to. The mug careened wildly from one side of the small table to another, thick syrupy stuff still slopping around in the bottom; just looking at it made his stomach churn.

Though that could just be the motion of the bus.  
  
Harry held on tight with his good hand and gingerly rested the one with the grazed palm against his leg. It stung, even with the light pressure, just the weight of his hand against his jeans. He saw Stan’s eyes dart towards the gaping hole at his knee, the childish graze underneath all red streaks and grey dust. God, he must look like a clumsy ten year old.

“Been in the wars a bit, ain’cha, Neville?” Stan’s eyes were sharp, flicking over him as if looking for other clues.

“Just a bit.” A laugh shuddered out of Harry, and shock after shock of the evening he’d had began to bubble out of him in shivering breaths. The insults, the taunting. Aunt Marge… being alone on the streets… the shape in the alley…all of it. His hands twitched and shook, and he tightened his grip on the bed post as the bus jerked to a juddering halt.

“Merthyr Tydfil,” said Stan, not taking his eyes from Harry even when footsteps tripped down the stairs.

There were a few blessed moments of peace, just the engine rumbling somewhere hidden, vibrating through the bus like the build up to an earthquake, and then Harry’s stomach flip-flopped as it leapt back to life with a loud BANG, pulling away at top speed. The four-poster slid back and forth, almost knocking Stan off his feet, but he jumped nimbly onto the side of the bed.

“Steady on, Ern,” he shouted up to the cab. “You nearly ‘ad me that time.”

It made no appreciable difference, however. The bus flashed past trees and lampposts, lighted windows and dark shadowy alleyways, all blurring into streaks of light and dark as they picked up speed.

“‘E’s all right in a straight line,” sniffed Stan. “But ‘e’s a bugger with the corners. Look out now!”

It was too late though, and Harry was thrown sideways, his wrist twisting where he kept tight hold of the bedpost, unwilling to give up his only secure hold. If he could just… hold… on… but it wasn’t enough, and he was flung back, his free hand flailing out to grab hold of any support, finally landing on something solid and clutching at it for dear life as the bus rocked and swerved.

“‘Ere!”

“Sorry,” Harry gasped, and pulled his hand back quickly from where it had clutched Stan’s knee tightly enough to leave obvious creases.

But Stan was peering at him suspiciously. “Not one of _them_ lot, are you?”

What did he mean? Oh.

_Oh._

His eyes were boring into Harry’s, and Harry could feel his face flush, warmth spreading over his skin as his meaning dawned on him. He opened his mouth to deny it, but Stan’s eyes were travelling higher and higher, looking him over carefully, a puzzled expression on his face as if he should know him…

Shit.

“Yeah.” Harry blurted it out quickly, hardly knowing what he was saying but hoping it would get rid of Stan. If he’d just go, down to the other end of the bus or something, just so that Harry didn’t have to keep letting go to flatten his hair over his scar. Didn’t he have conductorish things to do, anyway? “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

He tried to look more like someone who’d been overcome with sudden uncontrollable lust than a rumpled schoolboy, but he thought he’d probably just managed to look psychotic. Hopefully it wasn’t going to get him kicked off the bus in the middle of Wales or Scotland - or even worse, back in Surrey where he started.

And he was going to have to be _really_ nice to Neville if he ever saw him again.

Stan’s eyes narrowed, and Harry held his breath. Then the pimply face broke into a grin.

“Well, well. You’re a fast worker, Neville Longbottom.”

What the–? Harry jumped as Stan pulled himself further onto the bed and settled between Harry’s sprawled legs. “Um…”

“Don’t get many offers on ‘ere, and wouldn’t take ‘em if I did, bunch of old drunks and losers mostly.” Stan gestured at the upper floors. “But you’re all right, Nev. What year you in, sixth? Seventh?” He leered at Harry.

Harry gaped, but couldn’t help a twinge of pride at being mistaken for an older boy. He’d always thought he looked young for his age, but maybe he’d grown over the summer. “S-sixth,” he gasped, hoping the lie wasn’t visible on his face.

“Such a time I ‘ad in my sixth year.” Stan’s face took on a dreamy expression. “‘Ormones goin’ off ev’rywhere, there were, could ‘ardly move for blokes that were up for a bit.” He winked broadly at Harry. “In for a right treat this year, ain’cha?”

Harry had a hard time imagining half of Gryffindor spontaneously deciding to relieve their hormone problem with each other, but the images, the thoughts that flashed through his head – _freckled bare skin with fine red hair, gasped curses in Seamus’ distinctive brogue, Neville’s wide eyes and even wider mouth_ – where the hell had those come from? He was grateful for the extra room in Dudley’s old jeans when he felt a twitch at his groin. But it was getting stronger… and that was definitely more than a twitch. Oh god, not that. Not _now_! He squirmed on the bed, but with the rocking and jerking bus, he only succeeded in brushing his leg against Stan’s knee.

“We don’t ‘ave long.” Stan lifted the ticket machine from around his neck, steadied himself with his arm and climbed up to straddle Harry. “But it’s the least I can do to ‘elp out a bloke in need, innit?”

With that he reached up, and Harry watched in horror as he pulled down a black folding blind to cover the window between the bus interior and where Ernie sat swaying in his armchair.

“Take ‘er the long way round, Ern,” Stan called, and reached for Harry’s zip.

There was a throaty chuckle from the cab, and Harry blushed even more.

“But I’ve never—”

He swallowed his rising panic as the zip was tugged down quickly, and there was a hand, oh god, Stan was touching his cock! The thought whirled round and round his head. Stan. Was touching. His cock. Through his underpants, granted, but still… he pretended the lurch of his hips towards Stan’s hand was an accident of Ernie’s driving, and repeated in his head “I don’t like this, I don’t like this, I’m not getting hard, I’m not…”, trying desperately to drown out the echoes of “He’s touching my cock!” which were rising in ever shriller, louder voices, a Hallelujah chorus of excitement that had nothing to do with his brain.

“‘Choo say, Nev?” Stan was looking up at him, his hand no longer trying to negotiate the mysteries of Harry’s too-large underpants.

Harry breathed. In, out. In, out. All he had to do was say he’d not meant this, never done this before, didn’t want it, and the hand would go away.

Any second now he was going to speak up. Really he was.

A sudden jolt forced the words out of his mouth. “Nothing.”

He clenched his fingers around the bedposts more tightly. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say!

But the bus jolted again, and knocked the breath out of him. Stan seemed barely fazed by it, and simply tugged Harry’s jeans down now, clearly reluctant to return to the struggle with the monstrous underpants without a bit of elbow room. Harry couldn’t blame him for that. If he was going to do this sort of thing ever again, he should probably try to invest some of his gold in some new underwear. Where did wizards buy underwear, anyway? He’d never seen any in the Diagon Alley shops he’d been in, and–

He drew in a sharp breath, and cool air brushed across his bare thighs. Stan’s hands were at the waistband of Harry’s underpants, and well, it was hardly worth stopping him now, was it? He’d look like a right pillock too, sitting there half undressed and then chickening out. Blood pumped loud in his ears, and his heart was rivalling the throb of the engine, pounding through his body with a deep pumping pulse, but somehow he managed to wriggle free of his underpants when Stan gave them an impatient jerk.

He looked up at the intent face above him, and the bus took a corner with a screech, throwing Harry up and across and—

Oh god. Harry’s arse thumped back down onto the feather mattress, and as he landed he saw his cock slap straight into Stan’s well-placed palm. Stan’s face was smug, and Harry didn’t dare imagine what his own looked like – flushed, panicked, his hair stood on end most likely by now, and he was going to lose his glasses if the bus bumped one more time, he was sure.

“Nice aim you got there, Neville.” Stan grinned, and wrapped his fingers expertly around Harry’s cock.

The first stroke was enough to almost make him come on the spot. Harry’s eyes flew wide open, and he squirmed, his shirt crumpling up on his belly. It wasn’t like touching himself, and that was still a new enough experience for the novelty not to have worn off – how was he supposed to cope with this? He could hardly catch his breath between the wonderful, terrible fingers massaging his stiffening little prick and the irregular bounce of the bus as it jumped from town to town and country lane to high street in a single parp of its horn.

It was a good thing the bed was soft.

_Bounce._

“Oh yeah, you-

 _Bounce_ , and there went one arm of his glasses, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

“-like that-”

_Bounce._

“-don’cha Neville,” Stan breathed, his hand moving faster and faster, now with the movement of Harry’s helpless movements across the mattress, now against them. His hand around Harry was incredible, tight and slick, wet with that stuff that always leaked out and helped Harry’s own wanking along.

He couldn’t speak, could only move his lips soundlessly, but the tightening in Harry’s groin told its own story, and it must have been obvious, because Stan’s face above him was alarmed when Harry next blinked up at him through his skewed glasses.

“‘Ang on there a mo, Nev.” Stan shoved his own trousers down roughly, and Harry moaned at the loss of contact. Stan chuckled as his underpants joined his trousers around his knees, and he launched five and a half feet of smooth, gangly flesh on top of Harry.

If the hand was good, this was heaven. Even vaguely aware of feet tapping somewhere over his head on the upper deck, Harry couldn’t hold back a long moan when their bodies pressed together. His thighs were squeezed tightly between Stan’s, and the strange, hard heat of another erection slipped and slid against him, pushing him over the edge in seconds.

He lay stunned, head spinning from more than Ernie’s driving, sticky liquid pooling between his soft belly and the bony hips that dug into him, still jerking, pressing, now holding still and taut… and a warm trickle joined his own seed where it lay cooling between them into a slithery sheen.

“Reckon that makes up for the chocolate, don’cha think?” Stan smirked, his conductor’s cap titled at an impossible angle. Harry wondered wildly if it was kept on magically. Maybe whatever it was would work on glasses, too.

“Conductor?” came a trembling voice, and Harry bolted upright. “Young man, where are you?”

Stan just patted Harry’s leg and knelt up, trousers shrugging up over his hips. He swung the ticket machine around his neck and released the blind, which rolled up with a snap, then sauntered off up the bus to find the passenger calling for him.

Harry struggled to fasten his jeans again, mortified at the thought of the owner of the voice, or Ernie for that matter, seeing the state of him. What the hell had he been thinking? Anyone could have seen him – them – and what was he going to do if Neville ever found out how he’d used his name? Or if anyone else found out?

But right now it was too difficult to think about that, or escaped prisoners, or whether he’d get Black’s empty cell when they sent him to Azkaban. And when Stan was down at the other end of the bus, helping dotty old witches and wizards off with their luggage and berating them for holding him up, he allowed himself just a very small smile for the best handful of sickles he had ever spent.


End file.
